Animus Anonymous
by googleit6
Summary: Desmond is addicted to the Animus. Shaun is an addiction counsellor. DES/SHAUN
1. Chapter 1

Animus Anonymous

Prologue

A knock sounded through the small apartment, reverberating through the three rooms that made up the living space. The echo was loud, as there was so much surface area for sounds to bounce off. The apartment had white, paper thin walls, and grimy, brown tile that had once been yellow. There was a rusty refrigerator that sounded like it was working overtime to merely turn the light on when you opened it in the kitchen, and a sagging, cobwebbed plaid couch that had seen better days sitting in the living room. Anyone who found themselves unfortunate enough to collapse onto it after a hard day at work would stir up a dust cloud so disgusting that you had to plug both your nose and cover your mouth, and take cover in the bedroom until the air settled outside. It was no surprise that he was always in his bedroom- but then again, even if he had a couch a millionaire could afford, he would still never leave his room.

Cracks ran across the ceiling and continued down the walls. Support beams could just be glimpsed above the balcony door, as water damage from years previous had eaten through the ceiling.

Besides the couch and fridge, no other furniture frequented the living room and kitchen. No curtains, no TV, no table. The stench, however, was thick enough to be considered a solid presence. A combination of rotting food, mildew, dead bugs, and just the odour of a human with extremely bad hygiene habits all combined to make even the most resilient of noses bolt for the exit.

The knocker, however, was persistent. After no answer was received the first time, the visitor called out, now pounding on the door. When silence met the calls, a key could be heard being slotted into the lock, and with a quiet click, the lock popped.

The knocker turned out to be a young, blond woman. She closed the door behind her, and didn't bother taking off her shoes. With apprehension holding her in a vice grip, she made her way toward the bedroom. She called out again, praying to a God she wasn't sure existed that the apartment was empty. Taking a deep breath, and readying herself for the worst, she burst into the dark, dingy bedroom. This was no ordinary bedroom, however. No bed resided in it. The only thing in this so-called bedroom was a machine. A machine that _looked _somewhat like a bed, if the viewer was half-blind. A slab of glass was situated on four slender legs, much like a modern coffee table, but higher. There was a keyboard and control panel near the end of it, and it was glowing. So was the visor at the top of the table.

The woman's heart sank. As betrayal and guilt double teamed her, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks, she ran to the machine, keyed in a few words, and successfully turned it off. Slowly, ever so slowly, the visor over the man's head disappeared, and he lay motionless. The woman grabbed his cold hand, whimpered in fear, and touched his cheek. She whispered to him, and he didn't wake. She yelled at him, and he didn't wake. She slapped him across the face, and he didn't wake.

With weak legs, the woman pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and called an ambulance.

_How could he have done this? He promised._

Tears splashed on the man's face as the woman shook him, hoping that he would wake up. It couldn't be the end. It just _couldn't_. There was so much for him, for her. He couldn't be so selfish.

The woman screamed at the man with the pale and drawn face. She was sobbing on his unmoving chest, hugging him to her with all her might. When her voice was hoarse, she whimpered, whispered, and prayed. She begged him to wake up, to twitch, to vomit, _anything_. She just needed to know he was alive. It wasn't his time. He wasn't ready. _She _wasn't ready.

The ambulance took forever to respond.

The woman held the man's hand when he was on the stretcher, and climbed into the back of the ambulance with him. As the ambulance disappeared into the fog, and only indistinct red blotches could be made out of the taillights, the woman couldn't help but wonder if that's what it was like at the end.

Everything you love disappearing into the fog.

Chapter One

Shaun Hastings was massaging his temples with one hand, and popping the top off a pill bottle with the other. A stagnant glass of water was sitting on top of a few very important papers at the corner of his desk, and with a sigh, Shaun wiped the condensation off on his shirt. He held up the dripping papers, and with a disgusted grunt, tossed the sopping masses into the garbage.

Swallowing the painkiller, Shaun wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and regarded the office in which he currently sat in. It was a mess. Books about addiction and some from Shaun's personal collection were thrown in haphazard towers, always on the brink of toppling. Shaun always told himself it was a tribute the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which resided in one of his most desired vacation spots, but that would be lying to himself. Papers littered the floor and desk, and even the most important letters and notes were not spared the messiness that Shaun unreservedly bestowed upon everything in his office. The filing cabinet was bursting, and files stuck out of every drawer. Normally, Shaun was a very neat person- his apartment would pass a government test (if they tested for those things, of course). However, with all Shaun had to deal with at work, physically and emotionally, he was never in the correct state to organize his cramped, stuffy office.

One thing that he _did _keep clean, though, was his bathroom. Nothing annoyed Shaun Hastings more than a dirty bathroom. One fingernail on the countertop, and Shaun was out of there. He was never athletic, but at the first sign of grime, Shaun could accelerate from zero to sixty in less than three seconds.

The sound of a pen scratching on paper was somewhat soothing for Shaun. After a hard day's work, nothing was simpler than penning a letter to a thankful graduate. This particular boy was not exactly special, but he was determined and optimistic. Even if the boy was a complete social reject, Shaun would have returned the letter. Actually, Shaun was very surprised when he received a letter written on _paper_. His e-mail was just as prevalent as his mailing address, maybe even more so. For a traditionalist like Shaun, a "snail mail" letter was like an archaeologist uncovering the fossil of a thousand year old animal. It was pure bliss.

For many minutes, Shaun focused on merely the words he was writing down. But it became harder and harder as the office grew darker and darker. The novelty of writing an actual letter was wearing off, and his headache was returning.

With a groan, Shaun dropped his pen and stood up and stretched. Cracks and pops accompanied the stretch, and Shaun winced. He wasn't old, and didn't look like he was, but he felt like he was. Being an addiction counsellor was difficult at the best of times, and even with Shaun's thick skin, there had been many nights where he left and never wanted to come back.

Shaun grabbed his leather jacket, and tossed it over his shoulder. He turned his desktop lamp off, and closed and locked the door to his office. He made his way down the empty hallway, and saw that the elevator was out of order. He cursed, and took the stairs.

Four flights of stairs later, and slightly more out of breath than he would like to admit, Shaun was in the lobby of the building. He was halfway to the doors, when he realized that two people were peering anxiously through the glass. When they caught sight of him, the girl knocked on the glass sharply, and the guy attempted to hide in his flimsy, cheap coat.

Shaun stopped for a moment, surprised. Who could be calling at this hour?

He opened the doors, and the woman entered, dragging the reluctant man with her.

"Are you Shaun Hastings?" The girl inquired hopefully, gripping the young man's arm.

"Err, yes." Shaun replied hesitantly.

"Excellent!" The girl exclaimed, shoving her friend with surprising force into Shaun, who stumbled backwards.

She walked out the door with a wave to her friend and a smile for both men.

"Desmond!" She said, "Call me when you get home. I'll wait for you."

And she was gone.

An awkward silence followed. Desmond's face was bright red, and Shaun scratched the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry about her," Desmond eventually said, "She's a little… ah, eccentric."

"No harm done." Shaun shrugged. Why the hell was he being so awkward? "So… You were looking for me?"

Desmond was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly, and somewhat regretfully. "Yeah."

"Do you want to talk in my office?" Shaun asked, putting his jacket over his arm.

"Uh…Sure."

Desmond started to walk toward the elevator.

"This way," Shaun instructed, nodding towards the stairs. "The elevator is out of order."

"Oh," Desmond said quietly. He coloured again, and followed Shaun timidly up the stairs.

As they walked along the dark upstairs hallway, Desmond suddenly stumbled into Shaun.

"Whoa there, Desmond. Are you okay?" Shaun asked, steadying the man.

"I'm fine." Desmond whispered, twisting out of Shaun's grasp.

Shaun backed off right away, understanding the embarrassment in Desmond's tone. He couldn't see anything in the dark, but he was sure that Desmond was flushing again.

"Okay, how about we got a little slower?" Shaun suggested, putting on his best counsellor voice.

"Okay." Desmond assented.

They were about halfway down the hall when Desmond collapsed again. Luckily, it was a narrow hallway, and when Desmond fell, he landed right in Shaun's arms.

"Okay," Shaun explained patiently. "Put your arm around my neck, Desmond. I'll walk you to my office."

There was no answer from Desmond, but he did as Shaun told. Shaun put an arm around Desmond's waist, and they got to Shaun's office without further incident.

Flipping on the light, Shaun escorted Desmond to the couch in the corner, and helped him sit down. Desmond slouched onto his side. He was out.

Shaun held his breath for a moment, puffing his cheeks out. Then, he let it all out at once, in a big, gusty sigh. It wasn't that he was upset, per say. He was just really, really tired. And looking at the man lying on his couch, Shaun figured that this would be no quick fix. No quick jot on the prescription pad, and then sending Desmond on his merry little way. Not that Shaun ever did that, but some counsellors were known to.

No, Desmond was going to be a challenge. Shaun could tell by looking at his haggard face, the way he slept, curled up, like he was afraid that the world was going to get him if he ever let down his guard. Desmond couldn't be older than twenty four or twenty five, but he _looked _older. It was in his eyes- Shaun had noticed it earlier. They were haunted, as if ghosts were always following him around, hiding behind lamp posts and dumpsters, just to give him a good scare when they felt that he was getting too comfortable, too complacent.

Shaun figured he would sleep in a ball as well if he was as drawn and haunted as this man in front of him.

Running a hand through his hair, Shaun plopped into a sitting chair beside the couch. He was exhausted, but also overtired. He wasn't getting any sleep until he popped a pill at his apartment, and crashed in his extremely comfortable bed. With a big yawn, Shaun stretched his long legs out, and rested his feet on the matching ottoman. With his chin propped in his hand, he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, and looked at his newest patient. This time, he didn't search for any hidden demons, didn't search for the stories that most surely lied just behind his lips, but merely looked at Desmond's physical appearance. Simple human curiosity.

Desmond certainly _looked _harmless enough. He had very short, cropped black hair. Or was it a dark brown? Shaun figured he would find out soon enough, and moved on to his patient's actual face. If he recalled correctly, Desmond's eyes were a dark, chocolate brown. There was a crease between his eyes that plainly stated that Desmond didn't graduate from the whole "it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile" school of thought. Shaun figured he would find out the origins of that crease as he worked with him. Desmond had a good few days of stubble going on, but said stubble was interrupted in its growth where a large scar ran down the right side of his mouth. From the bottom of his nose almost to the bottom of his chin. Shaun figured there must be an interesting story behind that as well.

Shaun glanced at the clothes Desmond was wearing. He was dressed in a shabby brown jacket, and jeans that were almost falling apart. His shoes were scuffed up Nikes that had certainly seen better days. They almost looked like Desmond could walk right out of them one day on the street. They could literally disintegrate if it rained too hard.

Shaun _tsked_, feeling the snob in him surface. Desmond probably couldn't afford nice clothes like Shaun could, but still, that coat, those jeans, those _shoes_. They were just awful. Especially the shoes.

Suddenly, Shaun had an idea. He looked down at his perfect Italian-made shoes, then at Desmond's scruffy, torn up runners. He eyeballed a size, then smiled, smelling a problem that he could easily fix.

With much more energy than he had had a moment ago, Shaun stood up, and made his way over to his closet. He opened it, to find a few neatly pressed clothing bags hanging, and two pairs of shoes much like the ones he was wearing sitting under them. Shaun had had to pull many overnighters in his line of work, and sometimes went days without sleep. However, he hated the idea of looking like he hadn't had any sleep, so he kept a few extra outfits for nights like these.

With patience learned from years of dealing with unruly participants and distraught family members, Shaun carefully untied Desmond's shoes, holding his breath as if he thought that breathing on his new patient would wake him up. Cautiously, Shaun untied the shoelaces. (Though they were only tied in loose single knots, anyways, so he hardly had to tug at them.) The difficult part was actually slipping the shoes off. Luckily, Desmond wore his shoes about a size too big, which made Shaun wonder. Did he just scrape up the runners wherever he could find them? Shaun wouldn't have been surprised if they had been picked up off the side of the road, or had been found in a garbage can. They were certainly dirty enough to have spent the majority of their life sitting in the sludge, rain, and snow.

Ever so slowly, Shaun eased both sneakers off Desmond's feet, revealing plain white socks that had worrisome red stains on them. Quietly, Shaun loosened the laces of his own pair of gray Italian shoes, and slid them on Desmond's feet. He hadn't moved through the whole experience. Obviously, he was out like a light, though Shaun felt an absurd feeling of pride bubble warmly in his stomach.

He hadn't even had a chance to help Desmond yet, and yet somehow, he felt he already had, no matter how small an amount of actual help he gave, or how much Desmond ended up appreciating it.

It was all in the little things.

**A/N: **Kay so I have no intention of continuing this story past what I've already written, because I don't really like it. But I feel bad for not posting in FOREVER, and this is what I was spending that time working on. Unfortunately, I'm not that good at time management. Anyways, here's the first chapter of an attempted story that didn't quite make the cut. Hope you enjoyed it at least a bit! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Animus Anonymous

**A/N: So everything I have of this story will be uploaded today, because I need it off my computer for personal reasons. It's not beta'd and really rough, so just keep that in mind as you read.**

Chapter Two

Shaun had been lightly dozing in his chair, his mouth wide enough open for a fly to buzz around comfortably. However, the buzz most likely would have woken him up, made him close his mouth, and then swallow the fly, which would lead to extreme trouble for someone as anal as Shaun. Tetanus shots, creams, gels, sprays; if it cleansed, Shaun would be all over it.

Fortunately, a fly didn't meet its untimely demise in Shaun's mouth. He merely woke up because sleeping in his office was something that just didn't go over well with him. He liked to keep his public life and private life extremely separated. For someone as analytical as Shaun, turning off was no small feat, but he managed to forget about all the horror stories he encountered, all the tears, all the cracked wills. When he went through his apartment doors, he shed those experiences like a golden retriever sheds all over the living room carpet: One of the many reasons Shaun would never get a dog.

However, time at home and time at the office was becoming increasingly unbalanced at a rapidly growing rate. It seemed like an influx of new patients had been arriving lately, and paperwork on his Leaning Tower of Pisa was extremely close to toppling; Shaun couldn't even have the fan on anymore.

He knew that he _could_ just clean the damn office, but that required time, which, at present, he did not possess. And, if he ever did get a few minutes to himself, he spent the majority of that time trying to clear his head for the next problem or task that would inevitably pop up once he thought he was home free. Tylenol, Advil, and coffee were fast becoming his closest friends, keeping him awake and functioning when nothing else would. They were reliable, too.

_Well, what are you doing right now? _Shaun asked himself, looking blearily around the darkened office.

_Making sure Desmond doesn't die while he sleeps on my couch. That would be even more paperwork, and I don't think my paper tower can handle another sheet, let alone all the notes for a "stroked out on the therapist's couch" death._

Shaun rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. He could still keep an eye on Desmond while tidying up.

Shaun walked over to his desk, ready to turn the lamp on its lowest setting, when he heard a groan from the couch. He glanced over to see Desmond rubbing his eyes, looking as groggy as a bear after hibernation.

_Aw well, _Shaun thought, _I'll do it some other time._

Desmond was blinking rapidly now, trying to figure out his surroundings.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, the words coming out like mush.

"Around two AM," Shaun informed him, returning to his chair, which was at the end of the couch where Desmond's head lay. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted." Desmond responded, and struggled to sit up.

"Whoa, what are you doing?" Shaun exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down, so as not to grate Desmond in his just-waking up stage.

"Sitting up?" Desmond said in confusion. But then Shaun noticed Desmond's arms start to quiver, and he put both his hands on Desmond's shoulders, gently guiding him back down onto the couch.

"You're weak." Shaun explained, trying not to sound too condescending. "You shouldn't sit up."

Even in the gloom, Shaun could see that Desmond didn't like being ordered around. For a moment, he thought Desmond would protest, but then, with a sigh, he settled into the couch. But didn't sleep. He kept his dark eyes open, and he stared at Shaun for a good few minutes before saying anything.

"Do you do this often?" He asked, and it was obvious as to what he meant. Did Shaun often let patients stay overnight?

Shaun scratched the back of his neck, not wanting to make Desmond feel awkward or ashamed about anything.

"Not really," He admitted.

"So why are you doing it then?" Desmond had very intense eyes, and Shaun couldn't even imagine how much more probing they could be when they weren't half shaded with exhaustion and shadows.

Shaun didn't even have to think to answer that question. By now, the answer was so natural, it came to his lips almost before Desmond's question registered with him.

"Because it's what I do." Shaun shrugged. He didn't mean to sound like some modest hero. It was what he truly felt. His job was to help people like Desmond, and he would do it to the best of his abilities, because Shaun Hastings never did things half way.

Desmond was quiet for a moment before he changed the subject.

"How bad am I?" Shaun could hear the worry in Desmond's voice, could hear the fear and apprehension.

Shaun chose his next words carefully. He'd heard this question before.

"We haven't really spoken about that yet, and I don't have much of a back story, so I can't say anything for sure. But, if you have to know… It's most likely pretty bad." Shaun had heard ignorant people question why addicts would ever ask a question like, "How bad am I?" When they could just look at themselves and see. Shaun hated when people asked that. Sometimes, you just needed to hear it from someone else, from a third, unbiased party. Sometimes it took that confirmation to really get people on the road to recovery. They needed to know that they couldn't hide it from the world. Even someone who wasn't a professionally trained to see the signs like Shaun, would notice something different about Desmond when they passed him in the street. They would see the longing in his eyes, the emptiness in his face. The skeletons in his closet weren't passive; they were constantly scratching their fingers against the door, pounding their fists against the wall, clacking their decaying teeth together, all begging for Desmond to go back to where he was safe, where he could be happy- no matter how empty that happiness had become.

Desmond closed his eyes briefly, putting the heels of his hands to his eyes. Thinking you were insane was much different than having it -almost- confirmed by someone else.

"Life is shit," he mumbled, almost inaudible.

Shaun grimaced. Not the positive opening line he had hoped for, but the negative line he had been expecting. Usually, if he had a patient that opened up with a positive line, they weren't going to be long term. Shaun couldn't help but think that Desmond would be anything _but _short term.

"Why do you think so?" Shaun asked, keeping his voice perfectly balanced. Enough sympathy, but not too much to make Desmond think he couldn't confide in him. It was a tone Shaun had perfected over the years- he certainly hadn't been good at it at first. Being gentle hadn't -and still wasn't- exactly his forte.

"We live, we die. We eat, we shit. We fall in love, we fall out of love. How is it not shit?" Desmond gave a bitter but tired laugh. There was no humour in it. "Everything falls apart in the end, no matter what those love-struck idiots say about being together forever. It's all just a big god damn waiting room, and when it's your turn, there isn't a freakin' reassuring doctor waiting for you to take your blood pressure. Nope. There's no doctor when it's your turn. When it's time to go, you gotta go. All that shit you never did. All those people you never hugged. All those opportunities you never took. It's all gone. Gone into some timeless void, some black hole where should-haves and could-haves are around every corner. Where forgotten memories and unrequited loves go." Desmond took a deep, shuddering breath.

"And let me tell you," He advised, turning the intensity in his eyes up a notch, though they were still clouded with exhaustion. "That place has about five times the population of Hell; a thousand times the population of Heaven."

Shaun never let his calm façade slip, but Desmond's speech had unnerved him immensely. They were nothing but demented ramblings, for sure- Desmond had only been half conscious when speaking. He was asleep again, his arms his pillow.

But it took time to work up such a cynical view of the world. Desmond hadn't lived long enough to be so jaded, so full of hopelessness. He was a kid in his twenties, for God's sake. He was supposed to be partying and hooking up with girls at his age; not be so defeated, not be so haggard.

Though Shaun couldn't quite blame the kid, considering that he agreed with every single word Desmond had spoken.


	3. Chapter 3

Animus Anonymous

**A/N: So... Chapter three. Enjoy!

* * *

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Chapter Three

Shaun was _really _tired. Early morning light was filtering through the cracks around the curtains on his window, and he could feel the exhaustion setting in.

But he had a job to do. Readying himself for at least a few hours of work, Shaun sucked in a deep breath, and picked up a pen. He was interrupted before he even put said pen to paper, though, as he felt eyes on him. Desmond was awake.

With a small smile, Shaun put down his pen and walked over to a counter nestled in the back corner of his office. Hidden under the rubbish was a coffee maker. Old, but steady enough.

"Coffee?" Shaun offered, his back to Desmond on the couch.

"Err… Sure."

Shaun felt along the back of the coffee maker, looking for the plug. He found it, and plugged it into the outlet behind the table. Shaun flipped the switch, and with an angry hiss, sparks flew from the outlet, landing on the carpet and luckily, dying quickly. Shaun gave a shout of surprise as a spark landed on his trouser leg, and quickly started smoking.

"Fuck!" Shaun yelled, stamping his foot furiously, trying to eliminate the spark before it got out of control. However, it seemed to have a mind of its own, and, coupled with the extremely flammable material of Shaun's pants; it wasn't going to die anytime soon. With a sudden flare, the spark turned into a full blown flame, licking its way up Shaun's leg. His nerves were in full working order today, as Shaun could already feel the excruciating pain from his knee down.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He mumbled sharply, looking desperately around for anything to drench the flames.

Fire was spreading from Shaun's trousers onto the carpet now, and the rubber plant on his desk was going up in flames. The outlet on the wall was still sparking like fireworks, and the carpet in front of it had now caught on fire.

Suddenly remembering Desmond, Shaun looked over to the couch, and saw it empty.

"Desmond!" He shouted through the thickening smoke. "Desmond! Can you hear me?" Shaun coughed violently, having inhaled a mouthful of smoke. The heat was coursing up his leg, and he could feel his face getting scorched. Suddenly remembering grade school fire lessons, Shaun dropped onto his knees, getting out of the smoke, which now looked like a black wall above his head. He had to get out of here, and he had to get Desmond. The fact that his leg was going up in flames hadn't left his mind, and he was still furiously rubbing it along the carpet, trying to diminish them, but the fire was extremely resilient.

Somewhere, Shaun heard glass shatter. "Desmond?" He managed to shout before inhaling a thick cloud of smoke. He could feel it in his lungs, feel the tainted air as his heavy breathing continued. He had no idea if it was better to breath through his nose or mouth, so he settled on breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Where could Desmond have gone? Was he already out? Shaun couldn't see anything resembling human form around him, but he could only see a few feet in front of him. Plus the fact that tears were rolling down his face from the heat, and his leg was screaming in pain, he wasn't exactly in his best observing mood, therapist or not. He had to get out of here. Now.

But he couldn't leave Desmond.

Listen, he told himself. Desmond is gone. Dead or alive.

But he was _just _here. It wasn't a big office. Just the main room and the small bathroom. He must have gotten out.

The orange wall in front of Shaun and the black ceiling above him was really messing with his sense of direction. He didn't know what way the door was. Suddenly, a thought struck him like a thousand pound anvil.

_Am I going to die?_

He was going to if he didn't get out of here. He could hear the fabric on his pants leg sizzling. The skin on his right leg was going to be cooked in the worst way. If he lived, that was.

_C'mon, Shaun. Think. Find your surroundings. Get your sense of direction. You are not going to die because your coffee maker backfired. You don't even drink coffee._

Shaun started to crawl, hoping to God he'd find his way out. From somewhere behind him, he heard a _thunk_. He tried to keep going, but his pant leg that was still intact had gotten caught on a leg of his desk. Instead of feeling horrified, though, Shaun felt a smile break out on his extremely red face. Now he could place himself. He felt the dent in that table leg as well, where one of the moving men had dropped it when he had first moved into this office.

Praying that he was correct, and not just getting his hopes up, Shaun made his way in the direction he thought would get him out… and ran into a wall.

"Fuck!" He shouted, not caring that he inhaled a mouthful of smoke as he felt his body start to shake. His leg was on fire, his glasses were practically melting off his face, and he had no idea where the fucking door was. He was going to die in a fire started by a coffee maker. He had so much left to live for, so much left to do with his life. He never got to go to Italy. He never got to cross off the last movie in his "movies to see" list.

"Desmond!" Shaun shouted one last time, hoping that at least he had gotten out alive. Pain was coursing through him at what felt like a million degrees. He had visions of the flesh burning off his dry, blackened bones as the fire consumed the whole building. He saw the firemen in their offensively yellow suits _tsk_ing their disapproval at Shaun's faulty coffeemaker, sharing knowing glances with each other.

"If he had only gotten rid of that piece of junk, he would still be alive right now." Fireman One would say, shaking his head.

"Yep. It's certainly going to make me think twice about my own coffeemaker at home." Fireman Two would answer grimly, secretly relieved it didn't happen to him.

"Well," Fireman One would say, hitching up his uniform, "Let's clean up this Bar-be-que gone bad."

"Fuck you guys!" Shaun shouted, chasing the visions of generically handsome and grizzled and heroic Fireman One and Two out of his head. He would be the butt of jokes for years. That wasn't how he wanted to be remembered.

Just as Shaun was about to truly give up hope, he felt a weight on his burning leg. His first thought was, _Thank God I can still feel anything. _

His second thought was, _Desmond?_

Desmond had appeared out of nowhere, holding what looked like a wet towel over Shaun's now un-burning leg, and one over his mouth.

"Can you walk?" Desmond asked Shaun, who nodded weakly. Desmond could tell that Shaun could walk, but not walk _well_. He set his mouth, and leaned down to pick Shaun up, fireman style. With a surprising quickness, he navigated the smoky room, feeling his way toward the door. Desmond threw it open, set Shaun down, and slammed it shut. The fire was contained in the office for now, but they needed to move fast to avoid a sudden flare up.

"Come on," Desmond grabbed Shaun by the arm, pulling him toward the stairs.

"Elevator?" Shaun mumbled, stumbling after Desmond, almost completely out of it.

"Nope. Electrical might be screwed up." Desmond informed him. "Come on!" He encouraged Shaun as he stumbled, tripping over his own feet.

Shaun was in extremely bad shape. Desmond wouldn't be surprised if he began to cough up ashes soon. He was probably already sick from smoke inhalation.

"Shaun, you've got to work with me," Desmond pleaded. "We've got to get out of here and call the fire department."

When Shaun didn't respond, Desmond grabbed both of Shaun's hands, leading him into the stairwell and down the stairs. Desmond knew he couldn't carry Shaun down four flights of stairs, which was why he was leading him as sharply as he could.

Four flights of stairs later, Desmond and Shaun burst out of the building. They could see bright flames out the window.

Still leading Shaun, Desmond dragged him across the deserted street to a pay phone. He let go of Shaun and patted his own pockets, looking for a quarter, but came up empty.

"Shit," He mumbled, checking his back pockets as well. "Shaun, do you have a quarter with you?"

Exhausted as he was, Shaun reached into his own pocket and withdrew a quarter.

"Thanks," Desmond tossed it into the slot, and dialled 9-1-1.

Shaun fell into Desmond's side, struggling to stay awake.

Desmond explained the situation quickly and calmly, asked for an ambulance and a fire truck, and he hung up and pulled Shaun to the curb where they both sat down.

"Shaun," Desmond said slowly and clearly. "Can you tell me where you are injured?"

Shaun blinked slowly, took a deep breath, and muttered, "Leg…"

Desmond reached down and, extremely carefully, raised Shaun's pant leg. Shaun groaned in pain, and Desmond clenched his teeth. It was an ugly burn. Bleeding and cracked.

"Stay here." Desmond ordered him, standing up. He rushed across the street into the building again, and came out a minute later with a cup and towel. "This is going to hurt, probably." Desmond took the wet towel, and wrapped it around Shaun's leg. It sat there with a hiss, and, horrified, Desmond saw steam rise up.

Shaun gasped, tears coming to his eyes.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"It's okay," Desmond said quietly, dipping his fingers into the cup of water. He started to paint the water all over Shaun's face like a painter wit his brush on a canvas. He heard skin sizzling beneath his own seared fingers, and frowned, nervous.

"Mmm," Shaun's eyes were closed, but, much to Desmond's surprise, a slight smile was on his face. "That feels good."

Eyes wide, Desmond felt an unwarranted blush creeping up his cheeks. He had to clear his throat before speaking.

"Good."


	4. Chapter 4

Animus Anonymous 

**A/N: The last chapter of this story. It wasn't really going anywhere, so that's why I stopped writing. I haven't uploaded anything in forever though, so, if you're insane enough to actually read this story, I hope you enjoy this update.

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Chapter Four

Shaun could hear people talking, though he couldn't make anything out. It was all a big, white blur. When he reached up to rub his eyes, and he was met with no obstructions, he realized that he didn't have his glasses on, and that was why everything was blurry. He sat up, patting his hands around his bed, looking for his glasses that had probably fallen off sometime in the night. He could make out a nightstand to his right, and after feeling around for a moment, he came up with his glasses.

And then he remembered the fire.

"What the hell happened?" Shaun exclaimed to an empty room as he put on his glasses, feeling panic rise in his chest. Bright orange flames were leaping in front of his eyes, heat was searing his skin, his legs were screaming…

"Hey! Hey!" Someone shook Shaun out of his mini panic attack.

It was Desmond. Apparently, the room wasn't as empty as it first seemed.

"Desmond?" Shaun blinked rapidly, trying to focus. "What… What _happened_? I remember the fire… I remember thinking I was going to die, and that I didn't know where you were, I didn't even know where the door was…"

"It's okay now." Desmond assured him, sitting in the hard metal chair next to Shaun's bed. "The fire is out and everyone is okay. Your office, on the other hand…"

Shaun groaned, thinking of his leaning tower of papers that he would never get a chance to file properly. He thought of all the time he spent in that office, all the things he had defined himself by, _gone_. Ashes.

Desmond was wringing his hands nervously, and chewing on the inside of cheek, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"What's wrong?" Shaun asked, still in shrink mode. It took more than a blazing office fire and multiple injuries to throw Shaun Hastings off his game. Though, on his off days, -when he _willingly_ turned off- he could be as mean as anyone, and as cutting as a freshly sharpened butcher knife.

Desmond took a moment to wring his hands a little tighter, then said quietly,

"I don't know how I'm going to pay you back."

Shaun was quiet, waiting for his companion to elaborate.

Desmond put a hand behind his neck, his face turning red. "I mean, obviously there was tons of shit in your office that was important to you, and all those documents that you can never get back because your computer melted, and your notes and files and… _shit_. Only half of that stuff has monetary value, and I can't even afford to pay you _that_. I mean, I could-"

"Wait, wait, what?" Shaun was having trouble following Desmond's train of thought. He watched the nervous man with wary eyes, feeling like he was missing something.

"The fire was my fault, Shaun." Desmond said softly, looking at Shaun with dark, sincere eyes. "If you hadn't wanted to make me coffee, if I hadn't slept on the couch, if I hadn't let Lucy drag me to your office so late at night... All of this could have been avoided."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not go pointing fingers here. It was an _accident_. Accidents happen all the time." Shaun responded.

"No. It was my fault. I'll find a way to pay for the damages. I don't want to seem like I'm playing you for sympathy or anything, so I better get out of here before I say something even more stupid. I'll come back as soon as I get the money, okay? It'll be soon, I promise."

Desmond hastily made his way to the door, and was just about to bolt, when Shaun yelled his name.

"Desmond! Desmond!"

Looking like a small furry animal caught in the clutches of a hungry wolf, Desmond turned around, guarded. "What?"

"Don't be a twat!" Shaun exclaimed, feeling some of his "off day" personality creeping into his demeanour. "It wasn't your fault! You didn't do anything!"

Desmond tensed up, and looked like he was about to bolt again.

"It was my fault. I asked for coffee…" He mumbled, staring at the floor.

Shaun felt his eyebrows raise five inches higher than they normally could.

"Right…" He muttered, and flung back the sheets he was laying under, ready to get up and…do something to make Desmond understand.

However, he had momentarily forgotten that his leg was severely burned and not very willing to oblige to movement of any kind. It took a moments for his nerves to respond, but as soon as he pushed himself off the bed, what felt like a thousand pricks off a needle came rushing down his leg, jabbing sharply into the seared flesh.

He gasped, and Desmond looked up to find him sitting on the floor, his face contorted in pain.

"Fuck, Jesus, fuck," Shaun exclaimed, unable to touch his leg without sending another truckload of needles throughout his leg.

"Shaun!" Desmond rushed over and bent down. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just…" Shaun trailed off as Desmond reached down and helped him back onto his bed. He then proceeded to put his hands on Shaun's shoulders and ask, "Are you sure you're okay? Do you need more painkillers or something?"

Completely and utterly embarrassed at Desmond's sincerity and kindness, Shaun merely shook his head.

Desmond sat back in the chair with a sigh and covered his face with his hands. For a while, the two sat in a silence that was always on the precipice of awkwardness, but never actually lost their balance enough to fall. The shadows in the room grew longer as the watch on Shaun's bedside table seemed to tick louder and louder. They sat together in quiet for hours, one sighing intermittently every few minutes, and one staring forlornly at the floor and ceiling- and wall, if he was feeling adventurous. Every once in a while a nurse would come in and check Shaun's meds and give him new ones, and Desmond never moved a muscle.

Once the sun had completely disappeared from the sky, Shaun snuck a look at Desmond. He was still awake, and staring at the wall with tired, puffy eyes. His posture made him look like his spine was made of sponge. He almost disappeared beneath his huge, ratty brown sweater and ripped up jeans.

He was still wearing the shoes. Shaun felt a small smile cross his usually stoic face. Almost as if he could sense it, Desmond looked up too quickly for Shaun to resume his default expression.

"What?" He asked shyly, his voice thick. Shaun could tell he didn't like being scrutinized.

"You're wearing the shoes." Shaun stated matter-of-factly.

Desmond looked down at his feet like he didn't know what Shaun was talking about.

"…Oh, right. Thanks." He muttered.

Shaun was quiet for a second, waiting for Desmond to ask how they got on his feet in the morning, or where they came from, or anything, but he just stared at Shaun with such damn _sincerity _that Shaun couldn't doubt how thankful he was, but how he vocalized it and how he was looking at Shaun were two very different things.

"Why did you stay with me all day?" Shaun asked, and carefully watched for Desmond's reaction. He watched for more than the words. He watched for the truth, and it was all in the eyes.

"Umm…" Desmond scratched the back of his head, flushing. "I just feel really bad about all this." He told Shaun, turning his head to the floor.

Shaun grimaced, not pleased with not being able to get a clear view of Desmond's face.

"Is that why you spent six hours not saying anything to me? You know, I'm not even that badly injured. I won't die whether you are here or at home or with your girlfriend or-"

"Girlfriend?" Desmond asked, perplexed.

"That pretty blond thing who dragged you in here! She's not your girlfriend?" Shaun replied, surprised.

"Lucy? God, no. She's my best friend. She's like my sister." Desmond quickly clarified, looking queasy at even the slightest thought of any romantic interactions between him and his friend.

"That's probably better…" Shaun mused, staring at the foot of his bed. "A girlfriend can complicate things in the recovery process."

"Whoa, what?" Desmond questioned, his eyes wide. "Recovery process?"

"Yes…" Shaun answered like he was talking to a two year old. "You still want help, right?"

"I… yes, but-"

"Not buts about it," Shaun interrupted him, metaphorically putting his foot down. "If you need help, my job is to make sure you get it."

Desmond set his lips, thought about his next move, then stood up. He looked at Shaun with almost-anger in his eyes, but Shaun doubted he was really mad.

"Fine."

Chapter Five

Two weeks later, Shaun walked out of the hospital with a caution from the doctor and a cane at his side. The tissue wasn't fully healed, but if he was careful, he would be fine. It wasn't like he would be off to play soccer professionally the second he was given the okay. In fact, he struggled to remember the last time he did anything more cardiovascular than walking up a flight of stairs. Then again, he hardly ever ate, just because he was always so busy with other, more important things than food and exercise.

A horn blasted through the chilly autumn night, and Shaun walked -hobbled- towards the sound. He teetered a few times, and almost fell over at one point, but was able to right himself before totally making a fool of himself.

He finally made it to the car that could have been blue, green, or even black depending on how Shaun's eyes felt like perceiving darkness that night. The driver leaned over from the passenger's side and opened the door for him, and he braced himself on the car's roof with one hand, and slid into it, keeping balance with his other.

"How are you feeling?" Desmond asked, his eyes catching the glare of a passing car.

For the last two weeks, Desmond had shown up at Shaun's hospital room everyday at exactly nine AM, not exactly chipper, and not exactly depressed, but very Desmond. Very go-with-the-flow. At first, Shaun had rolled his eyes childishly, but Desmond's devotion eventually made him soften up to the guy. He mellowed Shaun out in a way that was difficult to pigeonhole. They had formed a shaky foundation of an acquaintanceship over the past few weeks, and hadn't even scratched the surface of Desmond's problem. In fact, he seemed to forget about any sort of problems when he was visiting Shaun, a sign that Shaun wasn't sure how to read.

"I'm okay," Shaun sighed, as Desmond started the car and headed out of the parking lot.

"So where do you live?" Desmond asked, catching Shaun's gaze in a sideways glance.

"At the other end of town. We'll be driving a while," Shaun grimaced as they went over a bump, his leg hitting against the door of the car.

Desmond slowed the car down marginally.

"Sorry about that."

Shaun frowned.

"You don't need to apologize, Desmond. It wasn't your fault the car hit a bump."

"Sorry."

"You're doing it again."

"Sorr- nevermind."

A chuckled escaped Shaun.

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**End Note: So there you go. It wasn't great, but if you read all this, I hope you enjoyed it!**


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